


What Went Wrong Yesterday

by SinnamonSpider, stormbrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Case Fic, Dreams and Nightmares, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, First Time, Frottage, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Sibling Incest, Song Lyrics, Supernatural Canon Big Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-03 14:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11533848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/pseuds/stormbrite
Summary: With Broward County in their rearview and a new case in their laps, Sam struggles to come to terms with the six months he spent alone after Dean’s death - and the fact that it never happened at all. And on top of it all, he now has to deal with the feelings for his brother that have been dragged to the surface.





	What Went Wrong Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, here's my very first Big Bang. Tada!
> 
> Huge thanks to stormbrite who did the incredible art - she really managed to capture the feelings I was going for, which was a whole new experience for me and was truly amazing! Art can be found here http://archiveofourown.org/works/11528532 and on LiveJournal http://stormbrite.livejournal.com/31199.html - forgive me, I don't know how to link it directly, but make sure to check it out!
> 
> Title and lyrics from "No Regrets" by MAGIC!
> 
> Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated.

 

 _The world isn’t over yet_  
_We’ve still got a chance to place our bets_  
_We both made a little mess_  
_Nothing our two hearts can’t put back_  
_I’ll never love you less_  
_Don’t let you worry, second guess_  
_We’ll start over fresh  
Living a life with no regrets_

* * *

They cross the border into Georgia and as the Impala races past the WELCOME TO GEORGIA sign, Sam lets out an explosive breath. Every mile they put between them and the Mystery Spot can’t come soon enough. In the driver’s seat, Dean watches from the corner of his eye, but as Sam visibly unclenches, dropping tensed shoulders and running a hand through his hair, Dean relaxes too, reaching over to flick on the radio.

Sam lets his head fall back against the seat. He’s been internally celebrating every tiny milestone as it passes: eight hours since he last had to catch a tumbling bottle of hot sauce, six hours since he last had to hear “Whatta ya want, a Pulitzer?!”, four hours since he last had to watch Dean die.

“We’re gonna take a quick commercial break, and then we’ll be back with some Asia just for you!” the DJ announces cheerfully. Sam bolts upright, hand scrambling for the dial, changing the station violently. Dean gives him a hard look. “Hey, maybe it was gonna be ‘Only Time Will Tell’, dude.”

Sam just glares at him. He’s stiff and tense again, sitting tall in the seat, heart pounding. Dean watches him a little longer before shrugging slightly. He starts to hum “Only Time Will Tell”, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time. 

Sam could throttle him. 

But even the thought, sarcastic and born of nerves frayed and worn, sends a sick feeling swooping through his gut. How could he ever stomach the thought of Dean dying again? A hard thing to avoid in their line of work, not to mention the crossroads deadline they were hurtling toward at breakneck speed. 

He closes his eyes, trying not to freak out. God, how many times had he cradled his dying brother in his arms? Even after the first dozen times, when he’d realized that he was going to continue watching Dean die every day before he woke up on yet another Tuesday, that was the one thing he’d never been able to brush off. He would grit his teeth through the conversations, the events, the encounters with Doris and Mr. Pickett and everyone else. He would pay as little attention as possible to the small changes that never ended up mattering when Dean was gone, because they never changed anything. He would move through that never-ending day on autopilot, uncaring and unaffected by everything.

But he couldn’t help holding Dean through every death.

He soaked his jeans climbing into the tub to cling to his brother - his very wet, very naked brother - as the blood from the gash on his head swirled away down the drain. He choked back the bile that rose in his throat at the sight of Dean’s torn-out intestines - what the fuck kind of golden retriever was that anyways?! - as he held Dean’s head in his lap. He blinked away the tears that sprung to his eyes from the acrid smoke that filled the bathroom, as he knelt beside Dean’s smoking corpse lying on the tiles, the electric razor still clutched in one charred hand.

Sometimes, he didn’t get the chance to get to Dean before he woke up again, Asia blasting in his ears. Sometimes Dean was still alive, green eyes panicked and wide as he gasped for breath or clutched at some awful wound, staring up at Sam, begging him to help. Sam tried, every time, or at least every time it ended up like that. It never mattered, but he couldn’t sit and do nothing.

He could bullshit his way through everything but Dean dying, even after the hundredth time.

A hand pats his shoulder. “Hey, stop brooding. I can hear you thinking all the way over here. You’re giving  _me_ grey hairs and worry lines.”

“You’ve already got grey hairs.” Sam doesn’t open his eyes.

Dean snorts. “We should both be so lucky to get old enough for grey hairs.” He sees Sam wince at his words, changes tactics. “Why don’t you tell me about this case?”

Sam rolls his head to the left, giving Dean a look. “Dude, I’m not six. Quit trying to distract me.”

“You’d rather sit there and brood?”

“I’m not brooding. I’m...thinking.”

“Thinking about brooding.”

Sam sighs. Dean nudges him, wriggling his fingers into that spot on Sam’s upper rib cage that he knows makes Sam squirm. “‘So get this’,” Dean says in his goofy Sam voice. He’s always been shit at imitations. Still, Sam finds his lips quirking, quite against his will. He heaves himself upward, digs in the bag at his feet for the newspaper. Dean turns the radio all the way down, cocks his head towards Sam, puts on his interested face, bats his eyelashes winningly. Sam appreciates the effort, even if it’s facetious.

“Chillicothe, Ohio. Three men have died, all at the same fitness centre: one in the parking lot, two in the building itself.”

“That’s what they get for going to the gym, suckers,” Dean comments.

“And get this - ” the words slip out before he can stop them and Dean grins so wide it looks like his face might break. Sam grits his teeth and continues on doggedly. “All three victims have been drained of all bodily fluids.”

“ _All_ bodily fluids?” Dean clarifies. “Yup,” Sam replies.

 “Well, that’s a bit weird. Usually it’s one thing or the other, not everything. Blood, heart, whatever.”

“Yup.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I could find. It’s a small town, though. Surprising enough that it made a bigger newspaper.”

Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel thoughtfully. “I dunno, Sam. It’s weird, for sure, but it doesn’t sound like much.”

Sam shrugs. “It never does, until all of a sudden it does.”

Dean gives a begrudging nod, makes his sturgeon face. “Still. Don’t you think we should be looking for the Colt? That’s our real problem.”

Sam sighs. “Dean, we still don’t have any leads on Bela. That hasn’t changed. That’s how we ended up - ” He bites off his sentence before the words slip out, because his stomach lurches at the thought of the Mystery Spot. “In Florida,” he finishes lamely. He doesn’t miss Dean’s sharp glance, but if he doesn’t acknowledge it, he can play it off like he did.  

“Okay, so Ohio it is. Any thoughts on what it might be?”

Sam ruffles his hair, thinking. “It kinda sounds like that Pine Bluff case. Sort of. Except the all the bodily fluids thing.”

“Huh?”

Sam looks over at Dean’s confused noise. Dean is arching an eyebrow at him. “What ‘huh’?”

“What Pine Bluff case?”

Sam stares. “The Pine Bluff case, Dean. Few months ago. Arkansas. The wraith?”

Dean shrugs, looking blank. “Musta left me at home for that one,” he says. The sun breaks through the heavy cloud cover, glinting fiercely off the windshield and Dean swerves, swears, and rifles around in the map pocket for his sunglasses. Sam doesn’t have any, he loses sunglasses like Dean loses single socks, so he’s left to squint bemusedly at his brother. “Dean, do you honestly not remember?”

“Dude, I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.” Dean quirks one eyebrow over the top of his Raybans and he’s spent so much time lately with that same incredulous expression on his face that Sam is convinced it’ll stick like that, like Dean used to tease him when he was little and pouting. “Hey - did I hit my head any of the times I died?” Dean continues, eyes back on the road so he misses Sam’s flinch. “Hope I don’t have any residual amnesia or somethin’ like that.”

As little sense as that makes, it doesn’t register with Sam. He’s gripping the door handle, trying to rid himself of the scenes playing out in front of his eyes: Dean, head caved in where it was struck by the sledgehammer Sam was using to break apart the walls of the Mystery Spot. Dean, head split open like a ripe melon under the tire of Mr. Pickett’s car. Dean, half his face blown away by a shotgun blast, bloody fragments of skin stuck to the jagged edges of exposed bone.

“Stop the car.” His words are terse. “Dean, stop the car.”

“What? Why?” Dean is flicking concerned glances between Sam and the road ahead.

“Please, just stop!” Sam is begging now; the nausea is rising in his throat and he knows he’ll only die once if he blows chunks in the car. Alarmed by the near-shrill tone of Sam’s voice, Dean eases the Impala over to the side of the highway and puts the four-ways on.

Sam fumbles with the door as soon as the car has rolled to a stop, finally gets it open and hauls himself out onto the shoulder. He bends over, hands braced on his knees, head lowered, trying to breathe through the sick feeling washing over his whole body.

A hand lights on his back, gentle and tentative. “Sammy?” Dean asks softly. He’s hovering close by, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to jump out of the splash zone if Sam does puke. Sam stays where he is, doubled over, and narrows his focus to the slight pressure of Dean’s fingers on his spine. They’re rubbing absently in small circles, that soothing motion Sam remembers from when he was younger and not feeling well.

After a few minutes, he’s pretty sure he won’t actually throw up, although his stomach is still churning unpleasantly. He slowly straightens up and Dean’s hand stays where it is, on his upper back, until Sam shakes himself a bit and the hand falls away. He misses the touch almost instantly.

He looks at Dean, takes in his concerned expression; he’s chewing his lower lip in consternation, watching Sam like he would watch a wounded animal, scared to move too fast lest Sam startle and flee. Which Sam is strongly considering.

Instead, he stumbles forward, closes the gap between them, and throws his arms around his brother, just like back in the motel room in Broward County.

Not expecting his big-little brother to fling himself on him without warning, Dean “oof”s in surprise. He backs up into the Impala, leans against it, pulls Sam along with him. His arms come up automatically to cradle Sam like he has for twenty-five years, big, capable hands spread across Sam’s back. Sam knows he’s being clingy and overbearing and he’s a bit shocked Dean is playing along, but he isn’t in a state to question it. He just buries his face in Dean’s neck, breathes in deeply, tries to get a hold of himself.

“Don’t like seeing you like this, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is rough but impossibly soft and Sam tenses his whole body to hide the quiver that wracks him. He doesn’t like being like this, doesn’t want the images of Dean dying over and over again in front of his eyes like a movie he can’t stop watching, doesn’t want to worry Dean needlessly, what with the demon deal and the missing Colt and all the other bullshit he’s already got heaped on his overworked shoulders. He’s got to do better, got to try harder. He will.

In a minute.

Right now, Dean’s right hand is idly stroking his hair and Dean’s pine-scented cologne is tickling his nostrils and Dean’s blood is thrumming through his carotid artery right by Sam’s cheekbone, strong and steady and alive, so alive. Sam reaches up and runs his index finger over the skin, feather-light, feeling the blood pulse under his touch, and to his surprise, Dean shivers and lets out a shaky breath. Sam’s mind is whirling and he suddenly wants nothing more than to follow the trace of his finger with his mouth.

Before he can fully process that thought - or, God help him, _act_ on it - he hauls himself up and away from Dean, shoving his hands roughly through his hair. “I’m good. I’m uh, I’m okay now. We can go.”

Dean is still leaning against the car, eyes hooded and expression unreadable, arms by his sides. He lifts himself up, leading with his hips. “Okay, weirdo.” The banter is back and Sam is grateful to him for not making it weird. Dean brushes past him on his way around to the driver’s seat and they climb back into the car.

As Dean steers them back onto the asphalt, his hand slips up to trail across his pulse point. Sam watches from the corner of his eye.

* * *

Distracted as he had been by Dean’s question about head injuries and his subsequent freak-out, Sam realizes that Dean still doesn’t remember the Arkansas case. He waits until they’ve driven as far as Dean wants to go and they’ve pulled into a motel and ordered Chinese food in. Dean is wrist-deep in chow mein noodles.

“Do you actually not remember the Pine Bluff case?” Sam asks, opening his laptop. Dean rolls his eyes, shoves another hunk of noodles into his mouth. Sam has always been impressed with Dean’s chopstick dexterity. It’s delicately precise, like a surgeon. “Like I said before, dude, I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about. And I don’t recall getting blackout drunk recently.”

Sam snorts derisively. He recalls Dean’s last blackout drunk night well enough, having hauled his unconscious ass into the Impala and driven them back to the motel. But that’s not the issue at hand. “Pine Bluff, Arkansas, about four months ago.”

Dean is looking at him like Sam’s the one who’s lost his damn mind. “Sam, four months ago we were in Cedar Rapids. Hunting a shifter.”

He knows that. Remembers it, ‘cause Dean’s thrown silver knife had missed the mark and his own had hit home and Dean had cursed and pulled a face and made them hustle darts instead of pool for three weeks. It hadn’t bothered Sam much. He knew he was better with a knife and Dean was better with a gun and he liked that they balanced each other out. Plus he’d really enjoyed kicking Dean’s ass at darts for the better part of a month.

But he also knows that he killed a wraith four months ago. Remembers the force of his knife shoving into the body. Remembers the sting of the shallow cut left behind by the creature’s sharp wrist spike. What he can’t remember is how Dean helped, how he was involved. His beef and broccoli is getting cold and Dean is sneaking pieces of the meat when he thinks Sam isn’t looking, but Sam can’t eat until he figures this out.

He covers his face with his hands, trying to block out the garish motel room and Dean’s continuous beef pilfering and retrace the case. There had been signs in Pine Bluff, similar as there were now in Chillicothe, and he’d been nearby, in Lufkin, when he came across them and he’d driven without stopping to get there.

Why had _he_ driven?

The answer punches him in the gut with the same sick feeling as earlier, in the car.

He’d driven because Dean was dead. For good this time: no more mulligans, no more Pig N’ A Pokes, no more “Heat Of The Moment”. No more waking up to plod through the same endless day that would end in Dean’s demise. No, Dean had bled out from a gunshot wound in the parking lot and Sam hadn’t woken up. He’d driven Dean to the hospital even though he knew there was no hope, even though his brother’s body had grown cold beneath Sam’s hands. He’d sat in the waiting room until Bobby had gotten there and gone in to look at Dean’s body, covered with a sheet, and then Sam had slipped out the front doors and into the Impala and onto the road, never looking back.

He’d been tracking the Trickster’s movements. Hunting alone. Digging bullets out of his own abdomen. Wiping out vamps’ nests. Listening to Bobby’s voicemails and then deleting them. He’d picked up the Pine Bluff case when the Trickster’s trail had led him to Austin and he’d set out immediately after purging the nest.

That’s why Dean couldn’t remember the job. He hadn’t been on it. Sam had done it alone.

A touch on his knee makes Sam jump and drop his hands. Dean is kneeling beside his chair, watching him with the same apprehensive face from before. “You freakin’ out on me again?” he asks quietly; no judgement, no scorn, no exasperation, only concern. That alone is enough to jar Sam from his reverie.

He _is_ freaking out, majorly. His pulse is rapid and his hands are clammy and for what feels like the tenth time today, he’s trying to smother the rising nausea burning up his esophagus. He’s  _tired_ , so tired of this endless barrage of flashbacks, tired of seeing his brother dead before his eyes while he’s sitting right next to him.

Dean is still watching him, narrowed eyes intent on Sam’s face. It’s too much.

“I’m just tired. Gonna hit the sack.” Sam climbs to his feet, shaking off Dean’s touch. “You can have the rest of my food.” Dean’s furtive glance at the container tells him that it’s likely mostly broccoli left. “You sure?” Dean asks. “If you wanna...y’know, I’ll always - ”

Sam cuts off Dean’s aborted attempts to talk it out. “I’m just tired,” he repeats. He grabs his shower kit and heads into the bathroom, feeling Dean’s eyes on him with every step.

Safe inside the bathroom, behind the locked door, Sam stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red, with dark circles beneath them, and his skin is pale and dull. He hasn’t slept properly since before the Mystery Spot.

He brushes his teeth mindlessly and when he spits into the sink, the foam is tinged pink.

By the time Sam emerges from the bathroom, Dean has, surprisingly, cleaned up the garbage from dinner. He’s sitting on his bed with his boots off and ankles crossed, watching a movie with what appears to be a Dean-approved number of explosions, judging from what Sam has seen in the thirty seconds he’s been watching the screen. Dean looks up as Sam crosses the carpet toward his bed and doesn’t say anything, but he aims the remote at the TV and lowers the volume. Sam shoots him a grateful look that Dean doesn’t acknowledge, and crawls into bed.

Dean’s bed creaks as he gets up and moves across the room. The lights go off and the room is left bathed in the blue glow from the TV. Sam watches an explosion flare against the hideous wallpaper.

He falls asleep to the sound of Dean humming softly along to the terrible power ballad ending theme.

* * *

He's bent over a motel bed, hands braced on the horrible bedspread. His chest is heaving. Sweat drips from his collarbone, down the slope of his nose, spattering the ugly pattern with wet spots.

He feels hands on his hips, digging into his skin, just this side of painful. Lips glide along his neck, wet and hot and biting down into his flesh, making him gasp out. The hands move, one snaking down to slide along his cock, which is stiff against his stomach, dripping precome like it's a contest and he's winning. The other hand trails delicately across his skin, moving over his back, over the swell of his ass, teasing just inside the cleft. He inhales sharply, thrusting forward into the grip on his dick, which tightens fractionally, twisting just the way he likes over the head.

There's a body behind him now, warm and solid against his bare back. It's plainly not female.

Skin against skin, the hand on his cock continues, thumb flicking across the weeping slit. He feels his hips jerk forward quite of their own volition. The finger caressing between his cheeks gets braver, pressing firmly against his hole and he struggles to push into the touch without losing anything of the delicious slick-slide on his aching cock.

He tries to twist around, tries to see who is behind him, but no matter which way he turns and bends, the owner of the hands stays hidden. He feels warm breath on the back of his neck, lips tracing over his skin. Helpless, he surrenders completely to the sensations wracking his body.

That questing finger finds what it's been seeking, sliding home past the tight ring of muscle, slick and smooth. He groans at the feeling, alien yet familiar, like he's been craving such a touch for his whole life and is finally being sated. The finger slips further into him, gentle, letting his body acclimatize. The hand on his dick never ceases, a steady rhythm, and he can feel the pressure building in his balls.

Just as he thinks he could handle another finger, thinks he wants more, a second digit joins the first. The stretch and burn is more pronounced, but far from painful, and he gives up on fucking his hips forward into the hand curled around his dick in favour of fucking them backward onto the fingers. Obligingly, the hand on his dick follows along, the arm pulling him in tighter, closer, so he doesn't lose out on either sensation.

His breath is starting to hitch in his chest as the fingers twist and spread within him, opening him with gentle deliberation. He knows where this is going and when a third finger is added, he lets the whine tear from his throat, thrusting mindlessly back onto the hand. One of the fingers brushes something deep inside him and he sees stars. "Fuck," he gasps out, but the word is silent, lost to his ears.

The hand on his cock speeds up just noticeably while the fingers inside him continue to stretch him, and he feels his balls drawing up towards his body. His release is just on the horizon, a tantalizing thing just out of reach. The fingers brush that same spot inside him just as the hand on his dick twists perfectly over the head and he's about to blow when he hears a chuckle in his ear: a sound he would know in this or any other world.

_"Dean!"_

Sam's eyes open, revealing the water-stained ceiling of the motel room. He's lying on his back in the bed, dripping sweat, chest heaving, one hand shoved into his pajama bottoms, curled around his iron-hard dick. He blinks a few times, tries to get his bearings. 

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice is sleep-rough, low and gritty. It sends a jolt straight to Sam's balls, tense and tight with interrupted pleasure. He snatches his hand out of his pants. There isn't much he can do about anything else.

Dean is propped up on one elbow in his bed, watching Sam with sleepy but attentive eyes, that goddamned eyebrow cocked so high it's in danger of getting lost in his hairline.

Sam feels his cheeks flame. He'd been dreaming, obviously, and woken Dean up to the sight of his little brother jerking off in his sleep. He passes a shaking hand over his face, feels the sweat on his forehead, tries to slow his breathing and get himself under control.

"Must have been a hell of a dream," Dean says, that deep, gravelly voice doing nothing to calm Sam's out-of-control hormones. "Gotta send her my way."

He manages a half-hearted laugh, struggling into a sitting position. "Sorry, man, I'm just - it's just - I haven't really -" He can't get the words out. He feels fifteen again, and awkward as hell. Dean gives him a lopsided grin. "Dude, it's fine. Nothing new under the sun."

Sam makes a vaguely affirmative noise, shoving back the twisted covers and swinging his legs over the edge of his bed into the space between them. He stands up shakily and Dean rolls onto his back. "Don't point that thing at me, please," he says. There's a heavy edge of teasing in the words but Sam doesn't catch it in his state of agitation. "God, s-sorry," he stammers and as he darts towards the bathroom, he hears Dean snort in what he prays is amusement.

"Take your time!" Dean yells as Sam slams the bathroom door shut. "Enjoy it! We ain't got anywhere to be!" Sam can hear him laughing.

He stares at himself in the mirror, just like the previous night, but the answers he's looking for weren't there then and aren't here now. Gritting his teeth, he jerks the damp pajama bottoms off, leaving them crumpled on the floor instead of neatly folding them on the toilet like he normally would, and spins only the cold water tap on the shower.

The freezing spray makes him curse, but does nothing for his rampant hard-on, and Sam rests his head against the icy tiles in defeat. He doesn't _want_ to jerk off, doesn't want to revisit those heated, intense images his idiotic brain have cooked up. But his body is demanding release and because staying in the shower until he drowns is tempting but ill-advised, he snags the tiny bottle of off-brand motel hair conditioner and squeezes a glob into his hand.

It's quick and dirty, almost punishing, as the cold water continues to stream down over him. He keeps his motions economical, trying to think about nothing at all, but he's getting nowhere and he knows if he takes much longer, Dean will probably come pounding the door down.

_Dean…_

His dick gives an interested twitch in his grip and Sam gives up entirely. He conjures up a random image of Dean doing nothing more provocative than driving the car, but the way Dean's wide hands slide over the steering wheel, the look of easy focus in his green eyes, the relaxed set of his broad shoulders is somehow more than enough and soon Sam is spilling hot over his cold fingers. The relief of coming after so long nearly drives him to his knees.

He finishes the rest of his shower in record time and steps out onto the bath mat shivering and dripping. He dries himself off perfunctorily, wrapping a towel around his hips, a smaller one around his sopping hair in the turban style Dean loves to laugh at, and a third around his shoulders. He's fucking _cold_.

Pajamas in hand, he opens the door and steps into the room. "Thought you drowned," Dean offers cheerfully from the depths of his duffel where he's digging out fresh clothes. He turns to meet Sam's eyes and his lips quirk in a poorly-concealed grin. "Hope you saved me some hot water," he says, snickering at his own joke. "And a towel too, ya goddamn towel-hog." He breezes off into the bathroom, leaving Sam shuddering and glaring futilely.

When Dean emerges in a cloud of steam, Sam is dressed and sitting idly on the corner of his bed. Dean shoots him a half-hearted dirty look. "Used all the fucking conditioner, Fabio," he accuses, dripping his way over to his pile of clothes.

Sam tries to snipe back like he normally would, call Dean a girl for wanting conditioner in the first place, call him Fabio right back even though it doesn't make much sense. But the words die on his tongue and he blushes hot again. Dean spies his crimson face, knows exactly what happened to all the conditioner because of course he does, he's a perpetual twelve-year-old boy. "Riiiight," he draws out the word, turning his back to Sam, letting the towel around his hips drop to the floor and shimmying into his boxer briefs. "Guess you needed it for _other things._ "

He turns back to face Sam with a shit-eating grin spread wide on his face. He's in his element here, all teasing older brother getting his kicks by making fun of little brother. As an outsider, Sam might be able to appreciate the situation, see the humour in it. As it stands, he wishes the Pit would open up in the godawful carpet right in front of him and swallow him up so he wouldn't have to deal with any of it anymore. Especially with Dean standing in front of him in just his underwear, wet drops still standing out on his bare chest and stomach.

His feelings are obviously written plain on his face, because the smile slides off Dean's face like a pancake off a well-greased pan. "Jesus, Sam." He takes a half-step toward Sam's bed, eyes crinkling up in concern. "I'm just buggin’ you, dude. Don't go looking like you killed a puppy or something."

“I know,” Sam says, ducking his head to avoid Dean’s gaze. “I’m just...a little rattled, I guess.”

That eyebrow is raised again - he’s not looking at Dean, but he can  _hear_ it - and Sam entertains fantasies about shaving it off while Dean’s asleep. “Yeah, it seemed...intense,” Dean offers, a bit awkwardly, wriggling into his jeans. Sam looks up, meets Dean’s eyes and he grins. “Anyone I know?”

Sam makes a wry face and regrets it as Dean’s smile widens. “Ooh,” he says, like a gossipy soccer mom, emerging from the neck of his t-shirt. “Let’s see. We don’t know a lot of people. Was it...Bobby?”

“God no.”

“Ellen? She’s totally MILF material. I’d hit it. If she didn’t scare the shit outta me.”

“I’m not playing this game, Dean.”

A pause, then, with the slightest edge, “Was it Jo?”

Sam considers saying yes, just to see if it would make Dean squirm, but the lie sticks in his throat. “Dude, I’m not saying.” He heads back into the bathroom to brush his teeth. There’s blissful silence for a few minutes.

Sam nearly chokes on his toothbrush when Dean suddenly appears at his elbow, all mirth wiped from his face. “Was it Jess?” he asks gently, and despite Sam’s exasperation with the interrogation, he just gives Dean a sideways look. “No.”

“God, please tell me it wasn’t Dad.”

Sam does choke on his toothbrush this time. “Jesus! No!” he splutters, spraying the mirror with flecks of white foam. Dean gives a pony shake of disgust as he reaches for his own toothbrush. “Thank God.” Sam does thank God, as Dean gets bored of the line of questioning and drops it, stuffing his own toothbrush in his mouth, jostling Sam’s elbow with his.

Sam wipes the spray of toothpaste off the mirror, watching Dean in their shared reflection.

* * *

When they get in the car, Dean asks Sam where he wants to go for breakfast. Startled, Sam picks a generic cafe and they get giant coffees and a couple of overpriced artisan breakfast sandwiches to go. Back in the Impala, Dean ejects Zeppelin IV and tells Sam to put in a tape. Sam nearly chokes on a mouthful of free-range turkey sausage. Then it clicks.

Dean is worried about him.

This is how he shows concern: big brother relinquishing control to little brother, letting him pick breakfast and music, little treats that would have put Sam over the moon when he was ten. It’s endearing, if a little misguided, and as he rifles through the box of cassettes, Sam is a bit shocked at how well it’s working.

There are a surprising number of his own cassettes still taking up space in the shoebox, rattling around with AC/DC and CCR, and his heart jolts at the idea of Dean driving alone, listening to Sam's old Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins tapes. He takes a few minutes to pick something: he doesn’t drive much, doesn’t get to exercise the driver-picks-the-music rule very often. He finds a mixtape he’d made probably ten years ago and feeds it into the stereo, gearing up for Dean’s inevitable complaints. Sure enough, the easily-recognizable chords of “Wonderwall” filter through the speakers and Dean snorts derisively.

The tires eat up the miles and soon they’re both belting out “Closing Time”, Dean not bothering to fake that he doesn’t know the words; he may like to pretend that he doesn’t know any music produced after the fall of the Berlin Wall, but he was a teenager in the ‘90s the same as Sam and there’s always something on the radio to fall in love with.

They break for a late lunch, burgers and fries and a Pepto-Bismol-pink strawberry milkshake for Dean, and then it’s back on the road.

Just outside of Spartanburg, South Carolina, Dean is tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along to the Goo Goo Dolls’ “Slide”, always a sucker for a good beat. The sun is starting to set, sending golden rays across the highway. Sam is breathing easier than he has in days and this morning’s fiasco is becoming less and less important.

This is what he’d missed the most when Dean had been gone; long days in the car broken up by diner food and gas station stops, marking the miles by the changing of cassette tapes and Dean’s attempts to give him a wet willy. This is home, the only home he’s ever known: the thing he’d ached for in lonely nights at Stanford, the moments he clung to for six endless months when he was alone in the car, silence his only companion because it hurt too much to have the stereo on playing songs that reminded him of Dean. The rumble of the engine vibrating through his body and old, familiar music; those are the tracks on the album of Sam’s life, and the only thing written in the liner notes is Dean’s name in capital letters.

The bittersweet violin in “Glycerine” breaks him from his reverie. Dean is singing along softly, absently, like he’s forgotten Sam can hear him. “If I treated you bad, you bruised my face…”

Sam joins in on the next line and it feels like a confession. “Couldn’t love you more, you’ve got a beautiful taste...”

Dean looks over at him and their eyes meet as the violin swells and it feels so much like a moment in a stupid romance movie that Sam nearly laughs. But their eyes hold, locked on each other like a targeting system and it isn’t until the car drifts over the centre line and someone blasts their horn that the spell is broken. Dean jerks the car back onto the right side of the road, throws a rude hand motion that goes unseen by the other car. He huffs an annoyed breath and stabs a finger at the eject button. The tape pops out and Sam reaches for it slowly, like he’s afraid he might cut himself on the jagged edges of the moment.

They travel in silence for nearly two hours. Sam is sunk low in the passenger seat, nose nearly level with his knees. Dean’s shoulders, tensed so high they were hovering near his ears, have started to drop and he scrubs a hand over his face. When he speaks, Sam jumps, the broken silence loud in both their ears. “Keep goin’ or call it a night?”

Sam shakes himself from his stupor. “I’m game if you are,” he offers, ceding to Dean as always. Dean rolls his shoulders, cranes his neck from side to side. “I’m beat,” he says finally. Sam wonders if he’d been weighing the options of the two of them stuck in the car versus stuck in a motel room. Either way, they’d be feeling the burden of everything that had been dredged up between them. “We’re a little more than halfway to Ohio. If we get an early start, we’ll get there tomorrow evening. Maybe poke around a bit after hours.”

“Sounds good.” Sam has nothing more to offer. The high he’d been riding all day, made of music and memories and good feelings, has disappeared and he’s crashing hard, all the fretful, jittery emotions pouring back in. He’s determined to keep a rein on it, which will be much easier once he can crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head to block out that look that’s creasing Dean’s forehead.

They pull into a motel a mile or so off the freeway. Sam waits in the car while Dean gets them a room and doesn’t realize he’s back until he raps sharply on the window. He climbs from the car as Dean grabs their gear and they cross the asphalt to their room.

Dean chucks his bag on the bed closest to the door, as always, and turns to the little table, picking up a lime-green flier for a local pizza place. He holds it up for Sam to see, raises an interrogative eyebrow. Sam nods without enthusiasm. They gotta eat, he supposes. Dean looks like he might say something, but decides against it, and slips back outside with his phone in hand to order the pizza.

Sam drops his own bag onto his bed and sinks down onto it, burying his face in his hands. Not for the first time, he wishes he’d never spotted the Mystery Spot case. It’s fucked everything all the way up and the ripples spreading out show no sign of slowing, and all for nothing. They’re no closer to Bela, they still have Henriksen on their tails, they’ve got no idea what to do with Lilith that doesn’t involve the Colt, and Dean’s deadline is ticking closer with every second.

The door opens and Sam raises his head. Dean drops the flier back onto the table. “Twenty minutes,” he says, voice loud in the silence that’s been hanging between them and Sam says “Okay” just to keep it from falling over them again so fast.

He feels every single second of those twenty minutes. Dean’s cleaning his gun, which is just to keep himself distracted, ‘cause Sam knows he hasn’t fired it since he cleaned it three days ago. Sam wants to hide in the bathroom again, but instead he leafs aimlessly through his notes, eyes flicking across the words on the pages without seeing any of them.

The knock on the door startles them both.

Dean drops the disassembled pieces of his gun onto the table and climbs to his feet, reaching for his wallet. He takes the steaming pizza box from the kid with the unfortunate complexion, extending it behind him into the room without looking, and Sam crosses the carpet to take it from him. Dean cradles a six pack of root beer in his arm while he pays the kid and then closes the door, locking it behind him.

Sam has deposited the box on the table and flipped the lid open. Double pepperoni, bacon, and - Sam frowns. Green olives. Dean hates green olives, prefers black, which Sam despises. They usually forgo olives all together, picking mushrooms instead, because while Sam will just pick the black olives off and pile them on Dean’s slices, Dean refuses to do the same with the green ones, claiming they leave a nasty taste behind.

This is a peace treaty. Dean is offering an olive branch.

He can’t suppress the snicker that slips from his throat at his own unintentional joke and Dean shoots him a look. “What?” he demands, looking offended. Sam feels a grin break over his face for the first time in hours. He picks up a piece of pizza, dropping it onto a flimsy paper plate from the bag of assorted sundries Dean had put on the table. He offers it to Dean, who’s scowling at him. “Olive branch,” he says simply.  

It takes Dean a second, but his lips quirk upwards and he reaches out, snags the already oily plate, plucks off a green olive and throws it at Sam’s face. “Shut up,” he says gruffly, but his answering grin is already crinkling his eyes, those lines Sam keeps finding himself wanting to kiss.

Dean picks all the olives off his pizza, dumps them unceremoniously onto Sam’s, and takes his bacon “as payment”. Sam rolls his eyes but allows it, handing Dean a can of root beer he’d surreptitiously shaken and maintains a wide-eyed look of innocence when the can erupts over Dean’s hands. The good-natured bickering continues as they settle onto their respective beds and Dean turns the TV on and the argument over what to watch ends with Dean in triumphant possession of the remote, shaking olives from his hair. Dean finds a terrible horror movie that had come out a few years earlier and they settle in to poke fun at the hapless characters.

* * *

Sam falls asleep and misses the end of the movie. He wakes in the dark to the sudden silence as Dean switches off the TV. He lies still, listening to Dean moving around in the gloom, familiar settling-in noises; the double-checking of locks, the spill of salt at the doorway and windows, the quiet rattle of empty soda cans as they’re stacked by the tiny garbage can.

The sounds die down, save for the pad of Dean’s socked feet on the carpet. Sam tracks the footfalls until they come between the two beds - and stop. He can feel Dean standing beside his bed and he fights the urge to hold his breath in anticipation. Instead, he keeps his breathing even and regular; a difficult feat to maintain when Dean’s fingers ghost gently over his jaw and up his cheek. He can feel gun callouses catching on his stubble. It takes everything he’s got not to turn his face into the touch.

The fingers disappear with as little warning as when they appeared and Sam hears the creak of springs as Dean climbs into bed. It isn’t until the breathing from the other bed has slipped into a slow, deep rhythm that Sam allows himself to move. His hand comes up instantly, tracing the same path as Dean’s, and he’s suddenly blindingly, painfully hard in the jeans he’s still wearing.

Desperate and uncaring, he rolls onto his stomach, grinding his hips helplessly into the mattress until he comes in his pants like a teenager, barely muffling his gasps into the pillow, half-hoping that Dean will wake. But Dean sleeps on and Sam lies in the cooling mess in his jeans, breathing hard.  

* * *

He’s dreaming again, but he knows it this time. Knows it, ‘cause he’s walking down that same stretch of sidewalk outside the diner in Broward County, the one he’d walked down a hundred times, trying to figure out how to keep Dean alive. He can see Dean now, a few paces ahead of him, and he calls out Dean’s name, but the word falls silent on his ears.

Dean must be able to hear it regardless, because he turns around and Sam recoils in horror. Half of Dean’s face is missing, bloody fragments of skin stuck to the jagged edges of exposed bone; the other half is perfect and handsome as ever, half of the bright grin, the remaining eye sparkling green. “Sammy,” the intact side of the mouth says. “Sammy, help me.” A mangled hand comes up, reaching toward him, and the words are pleading but the voice is light and cheerful. “Please. Help me, Sammy. Help me.”

He tries to move, tries to run, but it’s like his feet are glued to the ground and the figure moves jerkily toward him. “Sammy.”

He sits bolt upright, sucking in a harsh breath that catches painfully in his chest. Beside him, Dean jerks awake, eyes wide but focused and the gun he keeps under his pillow in hand. He lowers it when he sees Sam. His voice is rough and low, just like the previous morning, and Sam’s chest is heaving the same way, but for different reasons. “Sam?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing. Nightmare,” he gets out, rubbing one hand hard over his heart, feeling it pounding wildly beneath his skin. Dean relaxes fractionally and he tucks the gun back under his pillow, but his eyes are trained on Sam. “Bad?” he asks, scratching his head. Sam half-shrugs. “Not really any good nightmares, are there?” he replies, pushing his sweaty hair back.

“Guess not,” Dean concedes. “So less bad or more bad, then?”

Sam looks over at him. It’s early morning, early enough that the sun hasn’t risen, and the odd light streaming through the gap in the curtains casts Dean’s face half in shadow, an eerie echo of the dream. Sam shivers. “Bad enough,” he says dully, flopping back against the mattress and staring at the ceiling. His jeans are tacky with dried come against his skin and he shifts uncomfortably.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Nothing work related? Lilith, Yellow-Eyes, some new God-knows-what thing we gotta worry about?”

Sam huffs in exasperation. “No, Dean. Nothing ‘work related’. It was just a standard-issue nightmare. Nothing prophetic.” He  _hears_ Dean’s shrug. “Never know, with you.”

It’s not meant cruelly, but Sam flinches anyways. Dean’s not wrong - he’s always the one with some weirdo thing going on; premonitions, visions, psychic whatever. He’s the one Lilith sees as _competition_. He’s the one that Dad had warned Dean he might have to kill one day. Add that to his weird-ass behaviour since the Mystery Spot and he’s honestly surprised Dean hasn’t tried to exorcise him - or put him down like a dog.

It’s too early to get up and moving, but he feels like it’s a waste to go back to sleep. So he lies in the semi-dark, listens to Dean’s breathing even out again. When it’s steady and rhythmic, Sam rolls over to look at him. Dean’s head is turned on his pillow, turned toward Sam, his face still and calm like it rarely is when he’s awake. His arm is outstretched, hand dangling in the abyss between the beds, and it’s like he’s reaching out to Sam, pleading.

_“Help me. Help me, Sammy.”_

Sam shudders. He’s not sure which is worse: the nightmares or the crazy sex dreams. Both are shitty in their own way.

He lies there until the sun is fully up, streaming into the room and he feels exposed to the rays and to Dean’s eyes, like a bug under a magnifying glass. They skirt delicately around each other the whole morning, uneasy and unsure.

* * *

The rest of the drive is uneventful, even quiet. Dean won’t pick a tape; instead, he flicks endlessly through radio stations that shift as they drive, running an annoyed commentary that has Sam gritting his teeth. They roll into Chillicothe just as the sun is setting. There’s a crummy motel just off the highway that suits them perfectly, and Dean picks up burgers while Sam retrieves a couple of local newspapers to cross-reference the details of the case with what he already has. They settle down to their work, silent except for the occasional slurp of a soda.

Dean balls up his burger wrapper, nets it neatly into the garbage can across the room, and burps loudly. Sam shoots him a glare. “Nice.”

“Be grateful I didn’t do it in your face,” Dean replies, idly spinning a lone french fry on the tabletop.

Sam rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond. There’s still a weird tension between them and he’s not sure how to fix it, but he’s pretty certain that getting into an argument about table manners isn’t the way. Instead, he gathers his notes and papers into a neat pile. “Ready to go check out the gym?”

Dean makes a face, but climbs to his feet.

It’s a short drive to the fitness centre. They gear up and jimmy open a side door, beams of light from their flashlights sweeping across the empty club. The exercise machines make weird shadows on the wall and their footsteps sound strange on the rubber floors, but the EMF meter is silent and after thirty minutes, they come up empty-handed.

Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Nothing much going on here,” he muses. Sam shrugs. “Nothing now. Guess we gotta come back in the daylight.”

“Gotta check out the bodies too,” Dean reminds him. Sam stretches, yawns loudly. “Right. Split up in the morning? You want cadavers or gym rats?”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, what a choice. I’d rather the stiffs. You can hobnob with like-minded healthy people who make good life choices.”

“Works for me.”

They ride in silence back to the motel.

In the room, Sam settles on his bed with the laptop, re-reading the same newspaper articles on the case. Dean hovers anxiously near his own bed, rolling his head gingerly on his neck and making soft, pained noises. After five minutes of this, Sam sets the laptop aside and pins Dean with a look. “Dude, what?”

Dean returns the stare, looking affronted. “What what?” he demands. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re over there hissing like a snake. What’s wrong?”

“You’re a snake,” Dean mutters, palming the back of his neck again. Sam rolls his eyes. “Seriously. Is your neck sore?”

“Mind your business.”

Sam gets up. Dean tenses like he’s about to get attacked. “You stiffened up on the drive, didn’t you?” Sam says, telling more than asking. Dean hunches his shoulders, half-turning away. “Mind. Your. Business,” he draws out the words.

Sam moves forward and Dean slides backward. “Are you kidding me?” Sam demands. “You’re obviously in pain. Lemme help.”

“I’m fine.”

But Sam is tired of the game. He reaches out and grabs Dean’s arm, hauls him unceremoniously across the floor, then sets both hands on Dean’s shoulders and pushes him down to sit on his bed. “Stop being an ass.”

“You’re an ass,” Dean mutters mutinously, but he doesn’t try to stand. Instead, he shuffles around, presenting his back to Sam and waits.

For all his big talk, Sam is at a loss now. He was expecting more of a fight, wasn’t expecting to actually have to put his hands on his brother. He’s talked himself into trouble now. Dean turns to look over his shoulder, expression expectant and somewhat smug, at least until the stretch hits his sore neck and he turns back, wincing.

Sam squares his shoulders. This is nothing, he argues with himself. They do this all the time; fighting monsters tends to put kinks in your spine that can’t be ironed out without help. There’s nothing sexual to it. Never has been. Never mind the hideous tension that feels like it’s drowning them. This is business. If Dean’s off his game because of a sore neck, Sam’s ass could be on the line.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s spent internally justifying his actions until Dean shimmies his shoulders impatiently. “Jeez, sometime this century?” he complains. Sam jumps to attention. “Take your shirt off,” he orders.

He feels Dean’s hesitation, but if Dean is gonna be impatient. Sam will be too. He clears his throat loudly and even though he can’t see Dean’s face, he can imagine his expression. He’s silent, however, as he reaches to pull his shirt off and in the caution of his motions, Sam can see he’s really in pain.

Dean drops the shirt onto the bed next to him and waits. Sam sends a prayer heavenward and steps closer, letting his hands splay across his brother’s shoulders.

It’s just barely summer and they’re hardly ever outside in any state of undress, but somehow Dean’s freckles are coming in already. Sprinkled over his pale skin like someone spilled cinnamon, they draw Sam’s eye to the broad sweeps of Dean’s broad shoulders. As his hands move, kneading stiff, sore muscles, Sam takes advantage of his opportunity and looks his fill. He’s always loved Dean’s freckles. When they were little, when they would play in lakes or stream or mildewed motel pools, he would trace lines between the spots like a connect-the-dots with his fingers, soft, ticklish movements that would lull Dean to sleep more often than not.

He hits a knot just where Dean’s neck flows smoothly into shoulder and Dean tenses under his hands, letting out a groan that he likely didn’t intend to. Sam forces himself to keep moving, to not react, although his cock is swelling in his pants. He ignores it and focuses on the knot, massaging it firmly, loosening the tight muscle. Dean hisses through his teeth, but as Sam’s fingers work their magic, he relaxes and his shoulders drop.

Sam works his way up Dean’s neck, rolling his fingers over all the smooth, fair skin at his disposal. Dean is mostly silent, an occasional noise slipping past his lips when Sam hits the right spot.

Sam finishes his work on the long column of Dean’s neck and lifts his hands off his brother’s body. Dean makes a sound that almost could be one of loss and Sam’s heart jumps in his chest. He brings his hands up to Dean’s temples, rubbing lightly, because Dean will insist on gritting his teeth and giving himself headaches.

When Sam’s fingers go still, resting on Dean’s temples, Dean heaves a sigh and lets his head fall back against Sam’s sternum, eyes closed. Sam freezes, unwilling to move, afraid he’ll shatter the moment. Too soon, Dean lifts his eyes, shakes himself, and reaches for his shirt.

“Thanks, man,” he says quietly, emerging tousled from the collar. “That’s way better.”

Sam still doesn’t move. “Dean,” he starts, but Dean climbs to his feet, cutting him off. “I’m gonna take a shower tonight, let the hot water seal the deal.” He brushes past Sam as he heads into the bathroom.

Alone, Sam waits until he hears the water running before he drops his head in defeat. At least he hadn’t gotten punched, he muses as he strips down for bed and slides between the sheets. He’s still hard, and ignoring it pointedly.

He falls asleep before Dean comes out of the bathroom.

* * *

The gleaming black body of the Impala glides through the parking lot of the fitness centre. Sam is lounging on a bench outside in the bright sunshine, squinting as Dean pulls into the spot in front of where he sits. Dean climbs out of the car, Raybans on, hand straying instantly to the knot of his tie, loosening it and unbuttoning his top button. Sam struggles to pay attention to what Dean’s saying as he closes the gap between them.

“Dudes were drained like cheap beer at a frat party,” Dean announces brightly, shoving the sunglasses onto the top of his head. “Whatever got ‘em did everything but crush them against its forehead.” He pauses, considering. “If it has a forehead.”

“Colourful,” Sam comments, wrinkling his nose.

“I do have a way with words,” Dean agrees, scratching his head idly. “There was something weird, aside from the whole sucked-dry thing - a mark on their lower backs, all three, like a tramp stamp. Looked like a sucker mark, kinda like from a changeling. Presumably that’s where it latches on and goes to town. Never seen anything like it though.” He looks at Sam. ”What about you?”

Sam shrugs. “Club itself looks fine, same as last night. No sulphur traces, no EMF, no hex bags anywhere I could see. Nothing out of the ordinary.” Dean makes a disappointed face, but Sam’s not done. “Wait. I did notice one weird thing. All three guys were working out in the same cycling room, just before closing, on the nights they were found.”

"Huh,” Dean replies. “So you’re thinkin’ that whatever it is scoped them out in that room?”

Sam holds up a wait-a-minute finger. “There’s more. I watched the security tapes. The two found dead inside left the cycling room, showered first, then went to the changerooms. The footage goes wonky and when it clears, they’re dead.”

“Okaaay…”  

“Parking lot dude _didn’t_ shower, just got changed and left.”

“Gross,” Dean interjects, making a face. “Who doesn’t shower?”

“The parking lot footage does the same thing,” Sam continues. “Fuzzes out, and then he’s toast.”

“That is weird,” Dean says. “This whole case is friggin’ weird. So is it the cycling room or the showers or the changerooms? There’s not much consistency.”  

“Right,” Sam answers. “So you’ll have to check out all three.”

Dean gives him an incredulous look. “ _I’ll_ have to check out all three? What exactly will you be doing, Your Highness?”

Sam shrugs. “I’ve already gone in as a Fed, snooped around. Can’t suddenly pretend to go in and work out. It’d be suspicious.”

“You’re joking.” Dean squints towards the fitness centre, his face scrunched in disgust. “I don’t go to the gym. I sure as hell don’t _cycle_. That’s more your jam. Pansy girl workouts with special clothes and shit. ” He looks imploringly at Sam, who shrugs again, spreads his hands is a “well what do you want?” sort of way.

“Dontcha need some sorta membership or something?” Dean tries another tactic. “I’m not signing up for anything for a damn case that’ll be over once we gank the thing.”

“They have free trials. I asked.”

“Of course you did.”

Dean scrubs his hands over his face, looking like he’s been asked to torch his Baby rather than just cycle for thirty lousy minutes. “Dude, I don’t have gym clothes. I don’t even _own_ sneakers. I can’t _cycle_ in my boots.”

“There’s a Wal-Mart down the road. We can pick up some stuff for you.”

Dean puts on a pout and Sam is actually waiting for him to stamp those booted feet. “Man,” Dean starts, but Sam cuts him off. “Dean, seriously. Three guys are dead. I can’t go in. You gotta. Stop sulking.”

Dean’s jaw sets. “Fine,” he grits out, wrenching open the door viciously. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The sun is setting as they return to the fitness centre, golden rays filtering through the pink-tinged clouds. It’s beautiful.

But not as beautiful as Dean Winchester in spandex shorts.

Sam is having a hard time dealing with the sight. The only shorts they could find that would fit are bright cobalt blue. They match the blue and yellow trainers Dean is lacing up, one foot braced on the Impala’s bumper. Sam watches him loop the laces, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth like it always is when Dean ties his shoes. Finished, he lowers his foot and buffs the smudge of dirt off the bumper with the hem of the fitted black shirt he’s wearing and makes a face. “Dude, these shorts are a fucking torture device,” he complains. “They’re wedged so far up I can taste ‘em.”

The towel they nicked from the motel drops from Sam’s slack fingers onto the asphalt. “Shit, sorry,” he stumbles, stooping to pick it up. As he straightens up, he catches Dean trying to un-wedge his shorts. “God, don’t do that in the damn parking lot,” Sam yelps, averting his eyes. Dean scoffs, readjusting. “You’re gonna stick me in these things, you can deal with it.”

“Yeah, but there might be innocent children or elderly people around. They don’t deserve that.”

“Shut up.” Dean snatches the towel from Sam and trudges off across the lot towards the door. Sam follows, but not so close that he can’t get a perfect view of Dean’s ass in that clingy blue fabric.

The cycling room is an all-glass affair, with two dozen shiny spin bikes. Dean stops and looks into the room like he’s looking into the Pit.

Sam thunks a bottle of water into Dean’s shoulder. “Trust me, you’ll need it,” he replies to Dean’s questioning look. He pats the same shoulder. “Have fun. I’ll be in the car until you’re done.”

* * *

The club is quiet when Sam comes back in, most of the gym rats gone for the night. There’s only one kid at the desk who gives Sam’s badge a bemused glance, and a caretaker starting his night’s work on the fringes of the workout floor.

Sam heads toward the cycling room - perfect timing, as Dean is clambering off the bike, moving delicately. He’s dripping sweat, face red, chest heaving. He looks sharply all around the room, but there’s no hint of the creature and he heads out through the glass door as Sam approaches.

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever done ever,” Dean wheezes, mopping his sweaty forehead wearily. “I may actually be dying.” He throws the empty water bottle feebly at Sam and it bounces weakly off Sam’s knee.

“Poor baby,” Sam commiserates, stooping to pick up the bottle and side-eyeing the way Dean’s soaked shirt is clinging to every inch of his torso.

“My ass will never be the same,” Dean moans miserably. His gait is definitely more bow-legged than usual. Sam doesn’t trust himself enough to comment aloud on that one. “Alright, go shower up,” he says instead. “I’ll wait in the changeroom and we’ll see what happens.”

Dean moves gingerly down the hall. Sam follows and turns right into the changing area, while Dean goes left toward the showers.

Sam stalks through the deserted changeroom, opening lockers at random and listening for anything strange. His EMF monitor is silent. He can hear Dean singing Cheap Trick in the shower, his slightly off-key voice reverberating off the tiles. “I’m in too far, I’m in way too deep over youuuuu!”

Nothing in the changeroom is suspicious, so Sam sinks down onto a bench to wait. The sound of the spray and “The Flame” cuts off and soon Dean is limping into the space, dripping and glowering at Sam. “Anything in here?” he asks, squinting into the mirror and rubbing a towel vigorously through his hair. Sam wrenches his gaze off his brother’s wet, gleaming body with effort. “Nope.”

“I swear, if I fucking _cycled_ for nothing, I will murder you in ways that have yet to be invented.”

Sam shrugs helplessly. “Get dressed and we’ll comb through the place once more.”

Dean shakes his head, sending crystalline drops everywhere. “Nah, you go wait somewhere else. Weren’t all the victims alone at the time of the attack? Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Maybe,” Sam considers. “But what if it comes?”

Dean opens a locker and retrieves his duffel, stuffed with a wide assortment of weaponry. “I’m prepared. And I’ll yell if I need you. Just don’t go too far.”

Sam casts around the room. Something is prickling at his consciousness, that same feeling he always gets when they’re being hunted instead of doing the hunting. He’s suddenly worried to leave Dean alone. “Dean…”

Dean has his back to Sam, fighting his way into his jeans, the fabric sticking to his still-damp skin. “What, Sam?” he grouses. “I’m not gonna get hurt.” He shoves his feet into his boots, lacing them quickly, and then turns and picks up his shirt, staring at Sam with faint irritation on his face. Sam takes a step toward him. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like something is about to happen and it isn’t related to whatever they’re after. He takes another step closer.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice drops an octave, the nickname a gut reaction to whatever he’s seeing written on Sam’s features as he slowly crosses the space between them. “What is it?”

Sam can’t speak, he’s got no answers; he’s running on pure instinct, heady and strong. As he moves closer, Dean moves too, backing up until he’s pressed against the wall of lockers, green eyes wide as he stares up at Sam. “Sam,” he starts, but trails off.

Sam raises a hand, sees it tremble as he reaches out toward Dean, unsure of what he’s even going to do. He watches, feeling detached from himself, like he’s not in control, as his fingers make contact with the still-damp skin of Dean’s collarbone, brushing over the notch just below his throat. He feels Dean swallow hard at the touch.

Something filters through the white noise rushing in Sam’s ears - something chilling, a rattling, inhuman hiss - and Dean’s eyes focus on something over Sam’s shoulder, the deer-in-headlights look wiped from his face, replaced with deadly focus. “Sam!” he barks, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and spinning him around, out of the way. Sam catches a fleeting glimpse of something streaking down the hall toward the gym floor.

"Go - I’ll cut through the showers, in case it tries to double-back,” Dean orders, whipping his shirt on quickly over his head. He throws Sam a salt gun and silver knife - their customary arsenal when they haven’t identified a monster - and grabs one each for himself, tucking the knife into his belt.

Sam peers around the corner when he reaches it, but the hallway is empty. He slips the knife into his boot and gets a better grip on the sawed-off. He moves slowly, eyes darting all around, alert for any sound or movement.

He’s halfway down the hall when he hears a shotgun blast, amplified by the tiles in the shower. He turns and charges toward the showers. He’s almost there when he hears Dean curse loudly and the loud clatter of a rifle against tile.

He rounds the corner into the space just as he sees the creature collide with Dean and knock him over, sees Dean’s head crack off the tiled wall. Sam gets off a shot at the thing, but it hisses that same bone-chilling rattle at him and streaks back toward the changerooms. Sam spares one horrified look at Dean’s unmoving figure before he charges after the creature.

The changerooms are still and silent, just as before, and Sam stalks up and down the rows of lockers, rifle raised. He moves quickly through the room, but there’s nothing to be found. Swearing under his breath, Sam heads back toward the showers to check on Dean.

He hears it before he sees it, the rattling hiss, and when he gets into the shower room, he spies the monster crouched by Dean’s prone body, long spindly fingers plucking at the hem of his shirt to get to the small of his back, where Dean had seen the marks on the other victims. Sam aims and shoots, salt round striking the upper body, and the sound is more of a rattling shriek this time, but it leans closer to Dean, where the pale skin of his lower back is now exposed.

Sam moves closer and the next round hits the thing in the back of the head. It makes the high-pitched rattling noise again and backs off Dean, turning to face Sam. He takes in a few details - wide black pits where eyes would be, a horrible wide maw of a mouth with an insect-like sucker in place of a tongue - before it lunges at him and he dodges away. It barrels past him, back towards the changerooms and Sam gives chase.

He catches it just inside the room, sweeping his rifle at it and sends it crashing into a bank of lockers, the metallic sound loud in the room. The salt rounds are obviously having no effect, so Sam grabs the silver knife from his boot. He lunges at it, leaps back as it turns, hissing loudly, and the tip of his knife makes contact with a limb. The resulting shriek is loud and pained, the wound smokes, and he knows he’s found an effective weapon.

He lowers the knife and the creature strikes, leaping toward him with a rattle and he brings the knife back up, plunging it into the centre of the chest. The thing writhes against him, shrieking and hissing and the body slides off the knife, crumbling to dust even as it falls. The fragments land on the floor with a puff of dust and Sam staggers backwards, coughing.

He pauses for a second, breathing hard, wiping sweat from his brow. A low moan echoes down the hall from the showers and Sam turns on his heel. “Dean!”

Flashes of Dean’s body, already dead or still dying, spin through Sam’s head. It’s the Mystery Spot all over again. His heart is thudding painfully in his chest.

He rounds the corner just as Dean sits up, dazed, blood dripping from his temple. Sam could faint from relief. He dashes across the floor, feet scrambling for purchase on the slippery tiles, and collapses at Dean’s side. “Dean!”

Bleary green eyes turn to him, trying to focus. Sam reaches out, gets a hand on Dean’s face, angling his head to get a better look at the gash in his skin, blood staining his dark blonde hair. It’s not that bad, won’t even need stitches.

Dean shifts under his hands. “Sam,” he says. “Did you get it?”

Sam laughs weakly, still cupping Dean’s face in one hand. “Yeah, man,” he says gently. “I got it.”

“Knew you would.” Dean’s voice is soft, gritty with pain. “What was it?”

“No idea,” Sam says. Dean hums in acknowledgement. He turns his head, leaning into Sam’s touch. His eyes drift closed. Sam shakes him carefully. “Dean?”

“I’m fine. Not passing out.” His eyes remain shut, despite his words, and he moves against Sam’s hand in a motion that - if it wasn’t _Dean_ \- could almost be interpreted as nuzzling.

Sam tries again and his voice slips an octave lower, unintentionally. “Dean?”

Green eyes open wearily. “Sam?” he echoes in the same tone. He doesn’t move.

Sam is at a fucking loss. “Are...are you okay?”

Dean sighs, long-suffering. “Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and hold me.”

A spark lights in Sam’s belly, his heart, his head; his whole body flushing with the glow. He cradles Dean against him, letting the bloody head droop onto his shoulder, avoiding the wound. He curls them together tightly, slowly, afraid to move too fast for fear of pushing Dean away. When he feels Dean’s hand come up to fist in his shirt, just above his heart, Sam could cry.

“Can’t believe you made me say that out loud,” Dean grouses, voice muffled in plaid flannel. Sam snorts with laughter that’s a little too wild. He’s having a hard time reining in his emotions right now. “You can’t really blame me for not getting it,” he tries to defend himself.

“Can too,” Dean argues. “My brains are leaking outta my skull and I still have to be smart for both of us?”

“First time for everything.”

Dean pokes him in the ribs. “You’re forgetting the first part of what I said.”

“What?”

“The shut up part.”

Sam smiles against the damp hair. “Sorry. Got caught up in the other part.”

“I bet, Samantha.” The name is a gentle dig, but Dean’s the one curled against Sam’s chest like a heroine on the cover of a Harlequin romance.

They stay there for a few minutes, silent and still. Sam’s pulse is thundering in his ears and he wonders if Dean can feel his heart pounding. When Dean shifts in his grip, Sam loosens it immediately. “Dean?”

Dean’s face presses into his throat for a second and Sam feels warm breath on his collarbone and his head spins. “C’mon. Don’t really feel like sitting on this dirty-ass floor any longer,” Dean says. He starts to stand and Sam makes a false start, wanting to help but afraid he’ll get told off.

Dean makes it to his feet without help, but he stumbles on his first step and when he reaches out, Sam is there. “Let’s get outta here,” Dean grumbles, and they head for the exit.

* * *

Sam pulls the car into the motel parking lot and cuts the engine, looking over at Dean. He’s got his head back against the headrest, eyes closed, face tensed in pain. Sam’s hand hovers for a split second before he finds his nerve and settles it on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey. We’re home.”

Eyes still closed, Dean reaches out blindly and pats the dashboard. “Don’t I know it.”

Sam smiles. “At the motel, goofball.”

“Right.” His eyes open and they’ve lost that dazed look and Sam breathes a bit easier. “Need any help?” he asks. Dean makes a thinking face. “I’ll let you know,” he grunts, opening the passenger door and stiffly climbing out. Sam dives out of the driver’s side, nearly slamming the door in his haste, and makes it around the car by the time Dean is standing, swaying slightly. “I’m good,” he insists, and Sam contents himself with hovering a little closer to Dean than he would have an hour ago.

They make it across the parking lot and into the room without incident. Dean shucks his jacket and drops it on the table, sinking onto his bed with a groan and raising a hand to poke at his bloody head. “Don’t touch that,” Sam chastises. “I gotta clean you up.”

“Bossy,” Dean gripes, dropping his hand, but Sam kneels at his feet and starts untying his boots, which makes him grin. “That’s more like it.”

“Shut up.” Sam’s face heats up as he slides Dean’s feet from the boots. He looks up to meet green eyes looking down at him fondly, and Sam breaks for just a second, leans his head against Dean’s knee and feels a hand weave into his hair.

“Sammy.” Dean’s voice thrums with something that makes Sam’s face flame even hotter and he wonders idly if Dean can feel it through the denim. Dean is staring down at him, that affectionate gaze changing, even as he watches, into something else, something deeper. “Sammy,” Dean says again and it seems to be the only word he can say, and it’s the echo, the other half, the call-and-response to the only word that Sam cares about. Dean fists a hand in the fabric at Sam’s shoulder and pulls him upwards. On his knees, he’s eye-level with Dean sitting on the bed.

“ _Sammy…_ ” Once more, and Sam’s heard Dean say his name a million times in a million ways over the last twenty four years but he’s never heard it like _this_ : breathy, hesitant, intense, tremulous, trembling with emotion that neither of them would dare put a name to. They’re so close now, close enough that Sam can feel Dean’s breath ghost across his lips. He leans in, drawn like a moth to the flame, and Dean follows his lead and they’re _so close_.

Movement in the corner of Sam’s eye draws his attention away from the steady green burn of his brother’s eyes, just for a second, and he watches a drop of blood roll down from Dean’s temple, leaving a scarlet trail over his skin. And in classic Sam fashion - mere inches and seconds away from getting everything he wants - he pulls away. “Let me clean this up,” he says quickly, not trusting his voice.

Dean closes his eyes and his face goes blank, unreadable, but his hand releases Sam’s shirt where it was bunched at his shoulder. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees lightly, voice at odds with his expression.

Climbing to his feet, Sam retrieves the first aid kit from his duffel. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, tracking his movements, and when he turns back to face his brother, his expression is still smooth and blank. When Sam returns to the edge of the bed where Dean sits, gauze and rubbing alcohol in hand, Dean tilts his head up obligingly, eyes hooded and dark. Sam fumbles, drops the roll of gauze, watches it unroll onto the bed.

Dean sits silently. The crack Sam is expecting never comes. It makes him even more nervous, which he would have previously thought impossible.

“I...turn this way,” Sam orders, wishing his voice wasn’t audibly trembling. “Light’s better.”  

Dean obeys, shuffling around on the godawful bedspread. They both know the light isn’t much better in this position, know it’d be infinitely better in the bathroom where they usually patch themselves up, but it seems that neither of them are willing to break the rhythm of this strange, tense dance they’re doing, and this squeaky motel bed appears to be the stage they’ve chosen.

Sam pours the alcohol onto the gauze, dabs lightly at the gash in Dean’s skin. Dean hisses softly, but that’s the only reaction he gives. Sam tosses the bloody gauze aside, rips off a new piece. He’s losing himself in the mindless, easy task - something they’ve done a thousand times, nothing new or scary or uncertain. The minutes tick by as he cleans the cut, lays a few butterfly bandages to pull the edges of the skin together, tapes a snow-white gauze pad over the whole thing. Maybe a bit overkill, considering Dean’s usual tendency to put himself back together with paper towels and staples - literally, that one time in Denver - but Sam’s always been a stickler about these things.

“There.” His voice cracks the silence that had settled over them and the tension rolls back in, blanketing the room like snow. Sam’s fingers flutter once more over his handiwork. He’s half expecting it when Dean’s hand comes up to close around his wrist, and his gaze is drawn inexorably down to that green stare.    

“Are you done?” Dean’s voice is soft, the intensity kicking Sam’s heart rate back up and putting a distinct quiver in his limbs. “Guess so,” he manages.

“You sure? Don’t want to wrap my whole head in bandages? Do I get a lollipop?” The words are teasing, but the tone is serious, and Dean’s fingers are shifting on the bones in Sam’s wrist and Sam knows he won’t be distracted this time. His tongue feels thick, stumbling around the words. “Do - do you want one?”

“No.”

“Oh, good, ‘cause I don’t have - ” Sam’s babbling cuts off as Dean jerks his arm, yanking him down, and he falls back to his earlier position on his knees, face to face with Dean and he only has a second to process before Dean’s mouth is on his and Sam’s brain takes a vacation.

The kiss is firm, sure, with none of the hesitancy Sam feels, but then Dean’s always been a roll-with-the-punches, go-with-his-gut kinda guy. He trusts his instincts, where Sam trusts his knowledge. But he hasn’t picked up any tips on making out with his brother so far along his path through life, so there’s not much else to do but tie himself to Dean and let him plot their course. Dean’s lips move against his with purpose, with intent, and it’s infectious, so Sam kisses back like he knows what he’s doing.

A tongue brushes his lips and Sam opens up under Dean’s touch like it was a spoken order, obedience in his blood, in his soul; despite how often he tries to fight it, he will always defer to Dean on some level. At least in this moment, he doesn’t want to fight it; he just wants to give Dean everything he asks for and more.

Too soon, Dean breaks the kiss and they’re left panting and, at least in Sam’s case, shaking. “ _Dean_ ,” he whispers against plush lips, pouring everything he’s left unsaid since they left Broward County into the word, the only word, the very first word he’d ever spoken, and Dean gets it because he’s Dean and he always does. “Okay, Sammy,” he replies, so gently Sam doesn’t understand how it could make his heart ache, but it does.

Sam is dimly aware of Dean moving, pushing him back slightly, rising to his feet, pulling Sam along with him. They sway together, standing, Dean’s nose brushing Sam’s chin. Dean’s hand comes up to grasp his jaw, angle his head just right so he can kiss Sam over and over; light, quick presses of his lips. Sam feels like he’s drowning. His hands comes up to grab Dean’s biceps, clinging to him.

It’s all too much too soon and Sam can feel the panic rising. He tries to squash it down, screaming at himself in his head - _so close to getting everything you want, you jackass, just keep your shit together_. But Dean can feel his muscles tensing and the tremors that are a little too pronounced to be happy feelings. “Sam?” he asks, pulling his head back to look Sam in the face.

“No!” Sam exclaims, tightening his grip on Dean’s arms. At the guarded look that slams down over Dean’s features, he scrambles to amend his statement. “No, not ‘no’ for you, no - no to stopping, no to - ”

“Sam, you’re not making any sense. As usual.” Dean backs all the way away, shakes free of Sam’s grasp, reverses up against the bed. “Did I - do you not - ” He can’t seem to get the words out, fear and guilt twisting his face, looking too much at home on his delicate features, and Sam pounces on his chance. “Dean, that’s not what I mean.”

Dean sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sam, I’m gonna need you to be crystal clear with me,” he says quietly, defeat edging the words. “We’re about to cross some major lines here. If you don’t - if I misread...Christ.” He shakes himself, looking Sam dead in the face. “Sam, if this isn’t...if this isn’t what you want - ”

“It is. It is what I want.” Sam steps in, closes the gap between them. The panic at losing what he’s only just gotten a taste of is worse than the shock of actually getting it and Sam is barely holding it together, but Dean is starting to shut down and all Sam knows is that he’s got to get a foot in the door, keep it from closing forever. “It is, Dean. I swear.”

Dean’s lips twist hesitantly and Sam goes on doggedly. “Dean, listen to me. I’m telling you: this is what I want. For...well, I don’t know for how long. Since the Mystery Spot, at least. Maybe before. Maybe forever. I don’t know.” He moves closer, holding Dean’s gaze as he stares down at him, hating himself for putting those worried creases on his brother’s face. “I’m just...nervous. Scared.”

Despite himself, Dean scoffs. “Yeah, committing incest is pretty nerve-wracking, who knew?” Sam wrinkles his nose. “Ugh. Sounds so...clinical when you put it like that.”

Dean opens his mouth again and Sam takes hold of his chin. “Don’t. I don’t want to hash out the ugly details. I don’t want to put a label on anything. Later...later we can worry about that. If we have to. Right now, it doesn’t matter.” He lets go of Dean’s face. “Leave it. Just leave it for now.”

It’s picking at Dean’s edges, he can see it in Dean’s eyes, but his jaw squares and he gives Sam a lopsided grin. “What now, then?”

Sam is surprised into a laugh. He rakes his hands through his hair, suddenly shy. “I dunno. There’s not really a playbook for this.” Dean’s grin evens out. “Take your shoes off,” he commands and Sam does, casting a glance at Dean from under his hair. “Sexy,” he comments lightly. Dean snorts.

When Sam’s feet are free of his shoes, Dean snags his wrist, echoing his motion earlier, the motion that started it all. Sam feels his heart pick up again, but goes with it, letting Dean tug him across the carpet. “Wanna...lie down?” Dean asks, chewing his lip nervously. “Okay,” Sam agrees, and they both settle awkwardly onto the bed, neither making a move to lie back.

“Jesus, this is stupid,” Dean grouses. He flops back onto the pillows and grabs Sam by the back of his shirt, pulling him down too. “Feel like a freakin’ seventh grader.”

“You were smoother than this in seventh grade,” Sam says, staring up at the ceiling. Dean snickers beside him. “Damn right I was.” Sam turns his head on the pillow to look over. Dean’s got his eyes closed, one hand on his forehead, playing idly with the edge of his bandage. Sam reaches up and closes his hand over Dean’s, pulling it away. “Don’t,” he says softly, leaning in to breathe against Dean’s ear, and he’s rewarded with a full-body shiver that he files away in his mind for future reference. Dean opens his eyes and looks at Sam, and there’s so much open emotion in those bottle-green depths that Sam is grateful he’s already lying down. “Dean,” he says, voice pitching lower. Dean rolls over onto his side, brings a hand up to linger on Sam’s jaw. “Now, where were we earlier?” he says quietly, eyes flicking down to Sam’s lips and back up again. “Not gonna freak out, are you?”

“No,” Sam breathes, and he mimics Dean’s movement, rolling toward him, bringing their bodies flush. Dean tightens his fingers on Sam’s face and pulls him in, starting up those continuous quick kisses again. Sam hums appreciatively and the noise makes Dean freeze, surprised, before he growls just a little in reply and gets in deeper, coaxing Sam’s mouth open under his own.

Their mouths are slick and wet against each other, nipping and licking, tongues dancing across lips and the edges of teeth. Sam feels like he's drowning. He's been sneaking peeks at Dean kissing girls since he was nine years old. He'd always told himself that he was watching to pick up tips, to learn how to be with girls. Now, he realizes that he was watching all the time wanting to _be_ the girl. And trust Dean to kiss like he shoots: deadly accurate, blindingly efficient, and pretty enough to break your heart.

“Dean, Dean,” Sam gasps into the fraction of space between their mouths. Dean pauses, lips going still, but the hands that had wound into Sam's hair at the nape of his neck twist and tug just a little. “Yeah Sammy?” he says roughly, voice saturated with desire.

“I…” Sam trails off. He knows what he wants, but he's scared to voice it, unsure of where the line is now and unwilling to accidentally cross it. He chews his lower lip, avoids Dean's gaze.

Dean leans in and takes over the biting of Sam's lip. “What, Sam?” he asks, soft and dark and delicious. “What do you want? Know you want something. Tell me.”

The deep rumble of his voice through Sam’s body where their chests are pressed together makes Sam shiver. “Wanna touch you,” he says, feeling shy and silly. Dean just grins against his mouth. “Where?”

Sam pushes closer, feels like they're blending into one single person. He replies just as Dean grazes his teeth over Sam’s collarbone and his answer comes out low and rough and needy. “God, _everywhere_.”

“Mmmm,” Dean hums, sucking a vicious mark into his brother's neck. “Good idea.”

Dean rolls over, sits up, and yanks his shirt off over his head, tossing it aside carelessly. He tugs at Sam until he does the same, then pushes him back down on the bed. Dean blankets Sam's body with his own, settling into the space Sam makes between his legs like he was born to it. Sam thinks maybe he was; maybe they were born for each other, crafted carefully to be everything the other needed, and everything that's befallen them since their first days was only to bring them to this moment.

His heart is pounding, both with the sudden revelation and the sensation of Dean's bare skin against his own, Dean's fingers plucking at his nipple, Dean's mouth on the spot where his neck becomes his shoulder. He shifts under Dean’s weight and their hips grind together. Sam feels his aching cock push against Dean's hip and he moans at the touch. He hadn't realized he was hard, wonders idly when it happened.

Dean rocks them together again, pushing his own hard-on into Sam's body, curves his lips in a smirk against Sam's skin as Sam lets out another whining moan. “Is that a silver knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” he says slyly and Sam shakes with laughter beneath him. “Dude, _so_ not a sexy line,” he complains. Dean presses down with his hips and Sam's laughter cuts off, turns into a breathless gasp. “Doesn't seem to have turned you off at all,” Dean reasons.

They're rutting with a purpose now, hands skimming over each other's skin, mouths everywhere. Sam gets his hands on Dean's hips, pulls him down harder. “God, Dean,” he grits out and Dean just growls and bites down on a dusky nipple.

“Wanna feel you. All of you,” Sam begs, his hands shoved into the back of Dean's jeans, under his boxer briefs. Dean snarls into his throat, fucking his hips for another few thrusts before dragging himself away long enough to rip all their remaining clothes away. Then he slots back into his spot and Sam feels his naked, dripping cock slide slick against Dean’s and his eyes roll back into his head.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean groans. He's quieter than Sam would have expected, considering how little his mouth stops moving at any other given time. Sam is the one gasping and crying out, moaning Dean's name and letting these breathy, needy sounds punch out of his throat, sounds he's never made in his life: sounds all for Dean, all because of Dean, for no other ears but his. They _belong_ to Dean, just like he does.

They rock together, faster, harder, and Sam can feel his orgasm rushing down on him, tingling in his balls. He won't last much longer. “Dean - do you want to -” he cuts himself off, not even sure what he's offering, but Dean shakes his head and sweat drips down onto Sam's chest. “No,” Dean grits. “Just this. For now. Next time we can get fancy.” He latches his lips onto Sam's, plunging, ravaging tongue matching the rhythm of their hips. “Just you, Sammy. Just you. So come for me.”

He's trained to follow Dean’s orders, but this is the best one he's ever heard and he obeys without question. He digs his fingers into Dean's skin, losing himself in the friction of their bodies. “Gonna come for you, Dean,” he breathes. “Gonna come for you - gonna come, fuck, Dean, gonna -”

His words cut off as his release rips through his body, balls drawing up tight against him, and his dick spurts hot and wet in the space between them. “Dean, Dean, Jesus!” His come slicks them even more and Dean thrusts into the wet heat before he goes stiff on top of Sam and comes as well, a harsh sound bordering on a whine tearing from his throat.

Sam is boneless under Dean's weight, fucked out and utterly satisfied. Dean quivers above him for a few seconds more before collapsing onto him, heedless of the mingled mess of sweat and come.

They breathe together, hearts racing. Sam trails his fingers in lazy patterns over the sweaty skin on Dean's shoulders, tracing those freckles he can’t see, just like when they were kids, and earns a hum of pleasure for his efforts. “Gonna fall asleep if you keep that up,” Dean mumbles into his shoulder.

“S’okay,” Sam says softly, revelling in the closeness. Dean shifts on top of him, then freezes, and Sam can feel the face he pulls against his skin. “Yuck,” Dean grouses.

“Sticky,” Sam agrees, but he's happy where he is, sticky or not, and he whines as Dean peels them apart.

“Hold on, you clingy baby,” Dean complains, reaching down to snag someone's discarded t-shirt and using it to perfunctorily wipe them both mostly clean. “There,” he says, settling next to Sam and sighing with resignation as Sam snuggles back in. “Big girl.”

“Shut up. You like it.”

“You shut up. You like it more, because of your vagina.” But Dean gives as good as he gets, getting his arms tight around Sam's frame, resting his chin on top of Sam's hair.

They fall asleep slowly, tangled in each other, a feeling both sweetly new and achingly familiar.

* * *

It’s not much different, Sam realizes, when the sun comes up. They wake up together and indulge in a little “we’ve both got morning breath so who cares” making out, but when they’re done Dean smacks Sam in the face with a pillow, cackles madly, rolls out of bed, and claims the first shower. They jostle elbows while they brush their teeth. Sam steals a pair of clean socks from Dean’s duffel ‘cause he’s run out, earning himself a Sam-level bitchface - Dean is generous with underwear, but covetous with socks, which has never made sense to Sam.

They pack up and check out, stash their gear in the trunk, and climb into the car. There’s no real destination right now; no new case, no worrying omens. They haven’t discussed anything more important than breakfast when Dean reaches out and grabs Sam’s hand, tangles their fingers together. It’s Sam’s turn to quirk an eyebrow.

“I’m ‘bout to get chick-flicky, fair warning,” Dean says, looking determinedly out through the windshield. “I know we picked a shit time to get all this out in the open; we’re up to our asses in crap. Bela, the Colt...hell, Hell.” He swallows hard and looks over at Sam, then down at their entwined hands. “But I figure it’s always a shit time and we’re always up to our asses in crap. And we’re kinda fighting the clock here. So - yeah. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”

“Is that your way of asking for a blowjob?” Sam asks cheekily. Dean gives him an arch look. “I don’t gotta ask, Sammy. You’ll volunteer.”   

“I just might,” Sam returns and Dean’s fingers tighten around his own.

Suddenly, Dean’s phone rings shrilly and he untangles his fingers from Sam’s to flip it open, hitting the speaker button and setting it on the dashboard. “Hey Bobby.”

“Dean. Sam there too?” There’s nothing telling in Bobby’s voice and Sam knows there wouldn’t be, knows that Bobby won’t have any more awareness of those six months than Dean does, knows that he’s the only one who remembers. He remembers Bobby’s stricken face as he rushed through the doors of the emergency room and saw Sam, pale and tense and covered in Dean’s blood. He remembers Bobby’s pleading voice on his voicemail, begging him to let him help, let them find the Trickster together, let them give Dean a hunter’s funeral, salt and burn him so he can never come back. He remembers the sight of Bobby lying on the ground, stake through his back, Sam’s growing terror that he’d somehow made a mistake, that it wasn’t the Trickster, that he’d just stabbed Bobby and now he really had no one left.

Dean nudges him, gesturing to the phone. “Sam?” Bobby asks. Sam clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, sorry. I’m here, Bobby. What’s up?”

There’s a pause and Sam can picture Bobby giving the phone a suspicious look at the tone of Sam’s voice, but he continues on. “You boys alright?”

“Peachy,” Dean replies airily. Sam eyes him fondly. “Yeah, Bobby. We’re good. Better than good.” Dean catches his gaze and Sam could swear he blushes just a little.

“Glad to hear it,” Bobby says. “Got somethin’ you’ll wanna hear.”

“Shoot,” Dean says, sitting up straighter.

“Think I got a lock on Bela.”

“Seriously?” Sam demands, as Dean punches the air triumphantly, rocking the car in his enthusiasm. “What? Where?”

“Monument, Colorado. There’s an apartment leased by a Mina Chandler and reports describing a broad who looks just like her.”

Sam looks at Dean, who’s flexing his hands impatiently on the steering wheel. He’s surprised that Dean hasn’t peeled out already, gunning the engine towards Colorado. “She’s used that name before, hasn’t she?” he asks and Dean nods, eyes bright and wicked.

“Where you boys at?” Bobby asks. “Ohio,” Sam replies. “Chillicothe.”

“So Bumfuck, Nowhere,” Bobby grouses and Dean laughs. “Basically.”

Bobby mumbles to himself for a few seconds. “You’re about eighteen hours out. Almost due west, along I-70.”

“We can make it in fifteen,” Sam says. “Twelve!” Dean insists, reaching over Sam to wrestle the tape box from the glove compartment. He grabs Led Zeppelin IV and shoves it into the stereo. “Monument?” he says once more.

“Monument,” Bobby confirms. “Good luck, boys. Gimme a shout if you need anything.”

“Thanks Bobby!” Dean yells over Robert Plant’s voice singing the opening lines of “Black Dog”. He reaches for the phone, snaps it shut. Then he’s lunging forward, grabbing Sam by the face and hauling him in for a deep, heady kiss. When they break apart, Sam is gasping and Dean is grinning. He releases Sam’s head and settles back into his seat, throwing the car into gear. He picks up with Robert Plant. “I gotta roll, I can’t stand still, got a flamin’ heart, can’t get my fill…” He drums his fingers along with the driving guitar and Sam can’t help but smile with him.

The car rolls onto the freeway and they’re streaking toward Colorado, toward Bela and the Colt and a shot at Lilith, and while Sam doesn’t know what exactly is gonna happen, he knows that it’s nothing he and Dean can’t get through, as long as they’re together.

And he’ll do anything it takes to keep them together.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for 'What Went Wrong Yesterday'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11528532) by [stormbrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/pseuds/stormbrite)




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